We turn on all our lights, and stuff ourselves, and exchange presents, because our ancestors in the forest...chose the shortest day of the year to defy an almost triumphant darkness and declare loyalty to an almost beaten sun.
We have yet to learn..., that no matter how often man is knocked down, he will always pick himself up, punch drunk and sick and morbidly aware of his open guard, spit out some more teeth, and start slugging again.
...the new light coming into the world must be divine as well as human if the struggle is ever to be won.
Scrooge saw the air filled with fettered spirits, whose punishment it was to see the misery of others and to be unable to help...we too are unable...and we can offset our helplessness by affirming Christmas,...of what human life should be, a society raised by kindness into a community of continuous joy.
...there is now in the world a power of life which is both the perfect form of human effort and all we know of God, and which it is our privilege to work with as it spreads...until there is no one shut out from the great invisible communion of the Christmas feast. Then the wish of a merry Christmas,...will become,...a worker of miracles.
...Christmas is the only traditional festival...that retains any real hold on ordinary life...people want Christmas....because Christmas helps them to understand why they go through the bother of living out their lives the rest of the year. For one brief instant, we see human society as it should and could be, a world in which business has become the exchanging of presents and in which nothing is important except...happiness and well-being.
...Christianity speaks of making the earth resemble the kingdom of heaven, and teaches that the kingdom of heaven is within [us]. This is... the conquest of the whole year by the spirit of Christmas.
There is an unmistakable panic (something of the old pains recurring) in the advertisers' desperate appeals of "only so many shopping days left, "...
The story of Christmas, from its primitive beginnings to the present, is, in part, a story of how [we], by cowering together in the common fear of menace, discovered a new fellowship, in fellowship a new hope, and in hope and new vision of society."
...Dickens shows us,...Christmas past brings us only regret...Christmas future brings us only...terror of the future. But...to know and appreciate better the spirit of Christmas present is to wake from the nightmare of the future.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Friday, December 17, 2004
Joseph
My name is Joseph bar Jacob of the line of David, originating in the area of Bethlehem. Despite my bad health, I have consented to be called here before you, the elders of the city, because the story about Mary and Jesus needs to be told. No one, it seems, is in a better position to know the truth than I am. That is, except Mary herself, who because of her feminine gender, cannot testify before you.
The issue, as you well know, is whether my son Jesus is really my son or whether he is, as some have said, the son of a Roman soldier Pantera by name. Who would invent such a story to blacken our name? Of course, the whole issue will decide the matter whether my wife Mary is to be convicted of adultery and therefore, to be put out of my house and forced to leave our fair city.
It seems impossible to me that thirteen years have passed since Jesus' birth. Our life has been so quiet and pleasant since our return from Egypt. Time has a way of making important things unimportant. But not in this case.
Since we lost Jesus in Jerusalem last month and found him in the temple, impressing the teachers of the law with his knowledge, people have been asking questions about him. They cannot believe he is the son of a carpenter and a peasant woman. Rumours have spread and gossip has turned our lives inside out.
You have already noted that I myself do not condemn Mary. It is others who have brought this charge. Even though, as is our custom, Mary and I were legally betrothed one year before her arrival in my home, it was noticed that the boy Jesus was born only six months after fourteen year-old Mary arrived.
I must add that despite her peasant origins, I consider Mary among all women in the city to be the most devout and humble I know. She is widely respected by the women who know her. She has been a loving wife and mother. Indeed, if she were sent away, I doubt whether the paper-thin walls of my heart could withstand one more minute of this sinners life.
But you, my elders, are the only ones in a position to judge. You must forgive me if part of my tale seems ridiculous to you, even blasphemous. For it is precisely this reason which has prevented me from telling anyone what transpired those thirteen years ago. But now it does seem to me a greater blasphemy to have Mary convicted of a crime she did not commit.
The whole thing started innocently enough. I was going to visit someone at the Lion’s Gate Hospital, as was my habit in those days. I entered by the front entrance and stood by the elevators. I pushed the up button and patiently waited. It seemed to take forever, and considered taking the stairs, but something prevented me.
When the UP elevator arrived, I stepped on board. Two other people joined me. Dear brothers, as you well know, there is no greater obstacle to human communication than the elevator. If someone should speak, its tantamount to swearing in church. Silence and awkwardness are gods of the elevator. From the moment you enter, not an easy word is spoken, the eyes of our fellow travelers never meet, and we all stare vacantly at the progress of the numbers, or the permit with the two illegible signatures, or the maximum weight allowed. How many times have I counted and calculated the weight of my fellow travelers just to occupy the time between floors?
We had progressed from the main floor to the third floor, one person got off and another got on. The doors closed, when without any warning at all, the telephone began to ring. I have always wondered whether elevator telephones really work and often, I have almost succumbed to the temptation to pick the receiver up and see who, if anyone, would be on the other end. But I never did. That is, until this moment.
Call it what you like. Perhaps an obsessive-compulsive streak in me. When a phone rings in my vicinity, if no one answers, something urges me to pick it up. After all, I know what its like to be a caller with no answerer, unsure if you have called a wrong number or if the party was really not at home or is simply ignoring the ring. Except, who could be calling the wrong number on an elevator? Didn't Telus guard against such accidents? Could it possibly be the right number?
As the phone continued to ring, my elevator mates didn't move. It was as if they were stones, too heavy to shift their weight. Or as if the floor of the elevator had become as hot as an iron, melting their goulashes and sticking them to the floor. So, after some hesitation and four rings, I succumbed. I answered the phone. The elevator stopped dead.
The person called me by name. "Joseph," it said. The voice sounded so familiar to me. Was it my parents? But they had been dead for many years. Besides, how did they get the number? Were they checking up on me? Or was this someone's idea of a practical joke? Could it be Candid Camera?
But the voice was not my father's nor my mother's. Perhaps some other relation or a former girlfriend.
It was a voice I had heard in my heart from time to time, in the silence of the night when I wake for no reason, it was like the heartbeat in my ears in the quiet and the dark. Urging me. Holding me.
And the feeling I felt as I heard it! I felt strangely warmed, as when one returns to a summer place filled with fond, youthful memories; or when one dwells on a delicate phrase from Mozart and the whole world becomes, for an instant, briefly beautiful. But whomever it was, I had no fear of being familiar.
"Yes," I said, "What is it? And why are you calling me here? Can't you see I'm busy?" Even I was surprised by my curtness. It did indeed sound as if I were talking to my parents. All of a sudden, I became conscious of where I was again. My companions were staring at me in terror. This was no ordinary elevator ride.
"It's just my mmmmma, my faaaa, its just a, a friend," I stammered. "I won't be a minute."
"What do you want?" I snapped impatiently. The voice said something about Mary.
"What's wrong with her," I said. "Has something happened?" For, although she did not live with me as yet and I did not have responsibility for her, she was, after all, my betrothed.
And then the voice told me. It was the worst possible thing. It was like the crashing of cymbals in my ears. My standing in the community fell to the bottom of the elevator shaft. All my plans. All my hopes.
"She's what?" I asked. Then I looked again at my mates on the elevator. Their expressions had changed from terror to incredulity. Perhaps they thought I was a doctor, I reasoned, receiving an emergency call, or more likely perhaps I had escaped from the psychiatric ward. I started to feel hot. I loosened my collar.
"I'll be right there," I said. And hung up the phone. The elevator began moving again. I couldn't wait to get off. When the doors finally opened, I rushed out and disappeared down a corridor.
My mind was racing. My heart was in my mouth. I felt faint. I felt angry. What was I to do? Somehow I found my way to the chapel and sat down.
I could do nothing but put her away. Divorce her. But she could be tried and stoned. The law requires it, as you know brothers. O Lord! I could not do nothing, that was sure. But how could it be possible, unless perhaps the rumours around the countryside were true, that Roman soldiers were seducing and raping young women with impunity.
But even this seemed incredible, for Mary's parents mentioned nothing to me of this and they kept diligent watch over their daughter. O what did it all mean?
This was no time for anger and yet all I felt was rage. O Mary, Mary who would have thought that you of all people would come to this, that I would come to this.
I would be quiet about it, so as not to cause her shame. And as a result, dear brothers, I resolved not to bring her before this august gathering then. Yet, I could not help being overwhelmed with it all and I dissolved helplessly into sobs and bitter tears.
And then when I was at the very bottom of the pit, I remembered the voice. As comical as it may seem to you, brothers and though you may think me quite out of my mind, it struck me that I was left with a choice. If I followed the logical and most practiced way of dealing with such matters, according to the law of our people, I would cause nothing but hurt. I would be hurt. Mary would be shamed. Her family. My family. The community scandalized. The law, it would seem, was wrong in this case. But how could the law be wrong?
If I took the other course of action, it would be nothing but graceful for all concerned. You know as well as I do brothers, that there are many situations we men are faced with, including the children of dead relatives, where a man has the choice of taking a child as his own, even though the child is not genetically his own.
So it was my choice. I could make the child my own and the child would be my own. No one could dispute it. All I needed to do was say the word and he was mine. All of a sudden the solution seemed so easy. After all, I did not love Mary any the less for this. No, strangely, I loved her even more now than I had. I would name the child Jesus, meaning "he shall save" because he saved me, he saved my heart from becoming hard. He would become part of David's heritage, a son of the royal family, of which even Solomon, one of the greatest, was conceived by David and Uriah's wife Bathsheba under dubious circumstances.
Something told me, my brothers, that this was the way God was leading me and that despite the scandal which might occur and has in fact occurred thirteen years later, I could do nothing other than trust the voice which told me of the news and warmed my sinners heart. This child was special. And even now, he has proven to be so, even in his thirteenth year.
May God be praised that I did what I did, my brothers, for my son Jesus has been nothing but a blessing to me and if I should die tomorrow, my brothers - and let us make no pretenses, you all know my time is short - I shall die a proud man for what I did, a proud husband for whom I married, and a proud father for whom I gave my name and David's.
And now it is up to you my brother's to decide what the truth is. May God search your hearts and find in you courage and strength. With all due respect to your power here, dear brothers, I must tell you: I have a sense that whatever you decide shall make little difference to the events that have occurred in our land and will occur in our land. For I have a feeling that what is happening here has greater significance than the judgment of men and therefore it will be debated by many people from now and until no human questions need be asked any more.
© Donald M. Collett, 2004
The issue, as you well know, is whether my son Jesus is really my son or whether he is, as some have said, the son of a Roman soldier Pantera by name. Who would invent such a story to blacken our name? Of course, the whole issue will decide the matter whether my wife Mary is to be convicted of adultery and therefore, to be put out of my house and forced to leave our fair city.
It seems impossible to me that thirteen years have passed since Jesus' birth. Our life has been so quiet and pleasant since our return from Egypt. Time has a way of making important things unimportant. But not in this case.
Since we lost Jesus in Jerusalem last month and found him in the temple, impressing the teachers of the law with his knowledge, people have been asking questions about him. They cannot believe he is the son of a carpenter and a peasant woman. Rumours have spread and gossip has turned our lives inside out.
You have already noted that I myself do not condemn Mary. It is others who have brought this charge. Even though, as is our custom, Mary and I were legally betrothed one year before her arrival in my home, it was noticed that the boy Jesus was born only six months after fourteen year-old Mary arrived.
I must add that despite her peasant origins, I consider Mary among all women in the city to be the most devout and humble I know. She is widely respected by the women who know her. She has been a loving wife and mother. Indeed, if she were sent away, I doubt whether the paper-thin walls of my heart could withstand one more minute of this sinners life.
But you, my elders, are the only ones in a position to judge. You must forgive me if part of my tale seems ridiculous to you, even blasphemous. For it is precisely this reason which has prevented me from telling anyone what transpired those thirteen years ago. But now it does seem to me a greater blasphemy to have Mary convicted of a crime she did not commit.
The whole thing started innocently enough. I was going to visit someone at the Lion’s Gate Hospital, as was my habit in those days. I entered by the front entrance and stood by the elevators. I pushed the up button and patiently waited. It seemed to take forever, and considered taking the stairs, but something prevented me.
When the UP elevator arrived, I stepped on board. Two other people joined me. Dear brothers, as you well know, there is no greater obstacle to human communication than the elevator. If someone should speak, its tantamount to swearing in church. Silence and awkwardness are gods of the elevator. From the moment you enter, not an easy word is spoken, the eyes of our fellow travelers never meet, and we all stare vacantly at the progress of the numbers, or the permit with the two illegible signatures, or the maximum weight allowed. How many times have I counted and calculated the weight of my fellow travelers just to occupy the time between floors?
We had progressed from the main floor to the third floor, one person got off and another got on. The doors closed, when without any warning at all, the telephone began to ring. I have always wondered whether elevator telephones really work and often, I have almost succumbed to the temptation to pick the receiver up and see who, if anyone, would be on the other end. But I never did. That is, until this moment.
Call it what you like. Perhaps an obsessive-compulsive streak in me. When a phone rings in my vicinity, if no one answers, something urges me to pick it up. After all, I know what its like to be a caller with no answerer, unsure if you have called a wrong number or if the party was really not at home or is simply ignoring the ring. Except, who could be calling the wrong number on an elevator? Didn't Telus guard against such accidents? Could it possibly be the right number?
As the phone continued to ring, my elevator mates didn't move. It was as if they were stones, too heavy to shift their weight. Or as if the floor of the elevator had become as hot as an iron, melting their goulashes and sticking them to the floor. So, after some hesitation and four rings, I succumbed. I answered the phone. The elevator stopped dead.
The person called me by name. "Joseph," it said. The voice sounded so familiar to me. Was it my parents? But they had been dead for many years. Besides, how did they get the number? Were they checking up on me? Or was this someone's idea of a practical joke? Could it be Candid Camera?
But the voice was not my father's nor my mother's. Perhaps some other relation or a former girlfriend.
It was a voice I had heard in my heart from time to time, in the silence of the night when I wake for no reason, it was like the heartbeat in my ears in the quiet and the dark. Urging me. Holding me.
And the feeling I felt as I heard it! I felt strangely warmed, as when one returns to a summer place filled with fond, youthful memories; or when one dwells on a delicate phrase from Mozart and the whole world becomes, for an instant, briefly beautiful. But whomever it was, I had no fear of being familiar.
"Yes," I said, "What is it? And why are you calling me here? Can't you see I'm busy?" Even I was surprised by my curtness. It did indeed sound as if I were talking to my parents. All of a sudden, I became conscious of where I was again. My companions were staring at me in terror. This was no ordinary elevator ride.
"It's just my mmmmma, my faaaa, its just a, a friend," I stammered. "I won't be a minute."
"What do you want?" I snapped impatiently. The voice said something about Mary.
"What's wrong with her," I said. "Has something happened?" For, although she did not live with me as yet and I did not have responsibility for her, she was, after all, my betrothed.
And then the voice told me. It was the worst possible thing. It was like the crashing of cymbals in my ears. My standing in the community fell to the bottom of the elevator shaft. All my plans. All my hopes.
"She's what?" I asked. Then I looked again at my mates on the elevator. Their expressions had changed from terror to incredulity. Perhaps they thought I was a doctor, I reasoned, receiving an emergency call, or more likely perhaps I had escaped from the psychiatric ward. I started to feel hot. I loosened my collar.
"I'll be right there," I said. And hung up the phone. The elevator began moving again. I couldn't wait to get off. When the doors finally opened, I rushed out and disappeared down a corridor.
My mind was racing. My heart was in my mouth. I felt faint. I felt angry. What was I to do? Somehow I found my way to the chapel and sat down.
I could do nothing but put her away. Divorce her. But she could be tried and stoned. The law requires it, as you know brothers. O Lord! I could not do nothing, that was sure. But how could it be possible, unless perhaps the rumours around the countryside were true, that Roman soldiers were seducing and raping young women with impunity.
But even this seemed incredible, for Mary's parents mentioned nothing to me of this and they kept diligent watch over their daughter. O what did it all mean?
This was no time for anger and yet all I felt was rage. O Mary, Mary who would have thought that you of all people would come to this, that I would come to this.
I would be quiet about it, so as not to cause her shame. And as a result, dear brothers, I resolved not to bring her before this august gathering then. Yet, I could not help being overwhelmed with it all and I dissolved helplessly into sobs and bitter tears.
And then when I was at the very bottom of the pit, I remembered the voice. As comical as it may seem to you, brothers and though you may think me quite out of my mind, it struck me that I was left with a choice. If I followed the logical and most practiced way of dealing with such matters, according to the law of our people, I would cause nothing but hurt. I would be hurt. Mary would be shamed. Her family. My family. The community scandalized. The law, it would seem, was wrong in this case. But how could the law be wrong?
If I took the other course of action, it would be nothing but graceful for all concerned. You know as well as I do brothers, that there are many situations we men are faced with, including the children of dead relatives, where a man has the choice of taking a child as his own, even though the child is not genetically his own.
So it was my choice. I could make the child my own and the child would be my own. No one could dispute it. All I needed to do was say the word and he was mine. All of a sudden the solution seemed so easy. After all, I did not love Mary any the less for this. No, strangely, I loved her even more now than I had. I would name the child Jesus, meaning "he shall save" because he saved me, he saved my heart from becoming hard. He would become part of David's heritage, a son of the royal family, of which even Solomon, one of the greatest, was conceived by David and Uriah's wife Bathsheba under dubious circumstances.
Something told me, my brothers, that this was the way God was leading me and that despite the scandal which might occur and has in fact occurred thirteen years later, I could do nothing other than trust the voice which told me of the news and warmed my sinners heart. This child was special. And even now, he has proven to be so, even in his thirteenth year.
May God be praised that I did what I did, my brothers, for my son Jesus has been nothing but a blessing to me and if I should die tomorrow, my brothers - and let us make no pretenses, you all know my time is short - I shall die a proud man for what I did, a proud husband for whom I married, and a proud father for whom I gave my name and David's.
And now it is up to you my brother's to decide what the truth is. May God search your hearts and find in you courage and strength. With all due respect to your power here, dear brothers, I must tell you: I have a sense that whatever you decide shall make little difference to the events that have occurred in our land and will occur in our land. For I have a feeling that what is happening here has greater significance than the judgment of men and therefore it will be debated by many people from now and until no human questions need be asked any more.
© Donald M. Collett, 2004
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Thin Places
"...a primary function of many...Christian practices is to become a thin place....to bring intention and attention together for the opening of the heart....The Christian life is about...the opening of the self to the Spirit of god by spending time in "thin places"– those places and practices through which we become open to and nourished by the Mystery..."
-Marcus Borg
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Qualicum Beach
Before bed, I let the children go down to the beach one last time. They threw stones into the sea as the sun began to shine low on the water. It looked like a scene from an idyllic childhood. I snapped a picture forgetting that good photographs are ninety percent composition and ten percent context. Sentiment hardly counts at all.
Then, I set off on my walk while S. managed the final bedtime ritual. I began to recall how the name Qualicum Beach had resonated on my grandfather's gravely, rich Wiltshire tongue so that I imagined it must be a magical place where even lonely little boys could find fun and friendship. Qual-i-cum. The way he and all the adults as well as my older brother and sister said it made the long trip from Victoria seem short in imagined splendor. There was even mention of former childhoods, of older cousins.
And then we arrived. It was raining. The boat we were to ride on bobbed and pitched against the dock. Too rough today. It was like all Pacific scenes in southern Canada in the rain: Cold and windy. As a child, I couldn't imagine the glory a little sun and clear skies could make. And so we went home. Only much, much later would I learn that so much idolatry of place in the adult mind has to do with the memory of children playing in the sun.
Then, I set off on my walk while S. managed the final bedtime ritual. I began to recall how the name Qualicum Beach had resonated on my grandfather's gravely, rich Wiltshire tongue so that I imagined it must be a magical place where even lonely little boys could find fun and friendship. Qual-i-cum. The way he and all the adults as well as my older brother and sister said it made the long trip from Victoria seem short in imagined splendor. There was even mention of former childhoods, of older cousins.
And then we arrived. It was raining. The boat we were to ride on bobbed and pitched against the dock. Too rough today. It was like all Pacific scenes in southern Canada in the rain: Cold and windy. As a child, I couldn't imagine the glory a little sun and clear skies could make. And so we went home. Only much, much later would I learn that so much idolatry of place in the adult mind has to do with the memory of children playing in the sun.
Friday, December 10, 2004
Heaven or Hell?
"Dante's is a visual imagination...in the sense that he lived in an age in which [people] still saw visions...We have noting but dreams, and we have forgotten that seeing visions– a practice now relegated to the aberrant and uneducated– was once a more signficant, interesting and disciplined kind of dreaming. We take for granted that our dreams spring from below: possibly the quality of our dreams suffers in consequence.
"...Hell is not a place but a state; that a [person] is damned or blessed in the creatures of his imagination..."
"...Hell is not a place but a state; that a [person] is damned or blessed in the creatures of his imagination..."
-T.S. Eliot
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Living With the Action of God – 2
"On subjects of which we know nothing,... we both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an Hour, which keeps Believing nimble."
- Emily Dickinson
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Acting on the Action of God – 2
"Consider the lilies...the only commandment I ever obeyed."
-Emily Dickinson
Saviour
I gained a new understanding of thin times one snowy Advent afternoon in Calgary, the day my car died. Struggling on foot to a nearby Tim Horton's, I filled the air with curses: curses on the sky for sending so much wet snow in one night, curses on the traffic that forced me to walk in the ditch to avoid getting mowed down, curses on the makers of my hiking boots whom, I discovered, had not made a water-proof boot, curses on the makers of my car, the Plymouth Volare and the ancient year of its make- 1978. The air was blue with my curses and if looks
could kill I'm sure that all the people in that Tim Horton's donut shop would have died instantly upon looking at my face.
Sitting in Tim's waiting for the tow truck to come, I decided to put the time to good use and work on my sermon for the following Sunday. It was the Advent season and as usual, I was struggling to make sense of the story.
According to scripture the promise of the Christmas story is that somehow in Jesus, God's presence became real in a new way, and that in those times when chaos descends on us like the darkness of night, in those times God through Christ is present like a light illuminating our
way. Jesus saves us from the darkness giving us the light of hope when we feel nothing but hopelessness, helping us feel loved when we feel unloved, giving us courage when we are afraid.
Being in a particularly bad mood, I responded to the message cynically in my head, "Yeah, great, great. But what difference is the coming of Jesus supposed to mean to me?"
My answer came forty-five minutes later when the tow truck arrived. The driver got out of the truck and walked into Tim's looking for the desperate person who had called for help. Expecting to see a big, burly male, I was taken aback to discover that the driver was a woman. God's got a wicked sense of humour, I thought to myself.....
After getting the car loaded, we drove to the Plymouth dealership and I went inside the service department to talk to someone about what had happened to me that morning. A few minutes later, the tow truck driver joined me.
I'll be with you in a moment, the man behind the service counter said to her.
"It's alright. This is the person who rescued me," I explained to him.
Amazingly, without knowing a thing about me or what I did for a living, the woman responded, "Yeah, I'm her saviour."
And then I understood...
could kill I'm sure that all the people in that Tim Horton's donut shop would have died instantly upon looking at my face.
Sitting in Tim's waiting for the tow truck to come, I decided to put the time to good use and work on my sermon for the following Sunday. It was the Advent season and as usual, I was struggling to make sense of the story.
According to scripture the promise of the Christmas story is that somehow in Jesus, God's presence became real in a new way, and that in those times when chaos descends on us like the darkness of night, in those times God through Christ is present like a light illuminating our
way. Jesus saves us from the darkness giving us the light of hope when we feel nothing but hopelessness, helping us feel loved when we feel unloved, giving us courage when we are afraid.
Being in a particularly bad mood, I responded to the message cynically in my head, "Yeah, great, great. But what difference is the coming of Jesus supposed to mean to me?"
My answer came forty-five minutes later when the tow truck arrived. The driver got out of the truck and walked into Tim's looking for the desperate person who had called for help. Expecting to see a big, burly male, I was taken aback to discover that the driver was a woman. God's got a wicked sense of humour, I thought to myself.....
After getting the car loaded, we drove to the Plymouth dealership and I went inside the service department to talk to someone about what had happened to me that morning. A few minutes later, the tow truck driver joined me.
I'll be with you in a moment, the man behind the service counter said to her.
"It's alright. This is the person who rescued me," I explained to him.
Amazingly, without knowing a thing about me or what I did for a living, the woman responded, "Yeah, I'm her saviour."
And then I understood...
- Rev. Sandra M. Severs
Sunday, December 05, 2004
On the Other Hand, This is What Hell Looks Like
"Jung was absolutely right about one thing. We are occupied by gods. The mistake is to identify with the god occupying you."
-Leonora Carrington in an interview with Rosemary Sullivan,
cited by Michael Ondaatje in his novel, Anil's Ghost
cited by Michael Ondaatje in his novel, Anil's Ghost
"I had this fantasy of kidnapping women, making them fall in love with me and living happily ever after."
Alberta rapist, quoted by Robert Matas, in The Globe and Mail,
March 24, 2001, p. A9
March 24, 2001, p. A9
"I wanted to find one law to cover all of living. I found fear..."
-Anne Carson,
cited by Michael Ondaatje in his novel, Anil's Ghost
cited by Michael Ondaatje in his novel, Anil's Ghost
"Evil arises from the avoidance of one's own suffering."
-Scott Peck
Saturday, December 04, 2004
Living With The Action of God
"...the power to be startled by nothing, however extravagant."
-Edmund George Valpy Knox
"Once a thing is done, no one ever knows how it happened. there will be nothing but spaces of light and dark."
-Virginia Woolf
In his last days, Jesus' focus is not on suffering but on God's intention for him. If suffering is part of that equation, part of that paying close attention, even in the midst of the power of darkness, so be it.
Acting on the Action of God
"...the ability to see humour in the constant small defeats of life..."
- Edmund George Valpy Knox
"...I have come to believe that when the end comes it pays to cut your losses, for there is almost always more ahead than we can guess.
-Mary Catherine Bateson
"The world is so huge that people are always getting lost in it. There are too many ideas and things and people, too many directions to go. I was starting to believe that the reason it matters to care passionately about something is that it whittles the world down to a more manageable size. It makes the world seem not huge and empty but full of possibility."
-Susan Orlean
What Does the Action of God Look Like?
"But there is a moment of uncovering, which happens very fast and you seem to be losing track of something. It is almost as if you hear a key turn in the lock."
-Anne Carson
"Thou hast not half that power to do me harm as I have to be hurt."
-Shakespeare (Othello, V.ii.)
***
Just after his enlightenment, a person saw the Buddha go by and the fellow was struck by the countenance of this extraordinary person. The Buddha seemed to radiate peace. The man stopped the Buddha and asked, “My friend, what are you? Are you a celestial being, or a god?”
“No,” said Buddha.
“Well, then, are you some kind of magician or wizard?”
Again the Buddha answered, “No.”
“Are you a man?”
“No.”
“Well, my friend, what then are you?”
The Buddha replied, “I am awake.”
“No,” said Buddha.
“Well, then, are you some kind of magician or wizard?”
Again the Buddha answered, “No.”
“Are you a man?”
“No.”
“Well, my friend, what then are you?”
The Buddha replied, “I am awake.”
****
"It is true that the unknown is the largest need of the intellect, though for it, no one thinks to thank God."
-Emily Dickinson
Getting Ready for the Action of God
"Ellen spoke of caring in terms of a quality of attention, a total commitment to looking and listening,....No one is more attentive than a mother trying to learn to recognize and responsd to the needs of the newborn. She sleeps, of course, but she is sensitive to cries even when she is busy or sleeping..."
"Building and sustaining the settings in which individuals can grow and unfold...empowered to become all they can be, is not only the task of parents and teachers, but the basis of management and political leadership– and simple friendship.
[....] To be nurturant is not always to concur and comfort, to stroke and flatter and appease; often it requires offering a caring version of the truth, grounded in reality. Self-care should include the cold shower as well as the scented tub. Real caring requires setting priorities and limits."
-Mary Catherine Bateson
****
"Building and sustaining the settings in which individuals can grow and unfold...empowered to become all they can be, is not only the task of parents and teachers, but the basis of management and political leadership– and simple friendship.
[....] To be nurturant is not always to concur and comfort, to stroke and flatter and appease; often it requires offering a caring version of the truth, grounded in reality. Self-care should include the cold shower as well as the scented tub. Real caring requires setting priorities and limits."
-Mary Catherine Bateson
"One morning at breakfast, [Virginia Woolf] asked the young boy to tell her everything since getting out of bed. Once he had, she warned him: 'Unless you catch ideas on the wing and nail them down, you will soon cease to have any.' It was advice that I was to remember all my life.
-Nigel Nicholson
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